A Real Wizard
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Post-series. Wesley recovers his heritage, then returns to his mother's family in England. DH spoilers.
1. A Real Wizard

**Title**: A Real Wizard

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Category**: A:tS/Harry Potter

**Summary**: Wesley takes his own advice: the key to success is preparation. 850 words

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Spoilers**: A:tS mid-"Not Fade Away" (5.22); the "Harry Potter" series in general.

**Feedback**: It's the coin of the realm.

**Notes**: Twenty-first ficlet for the August Fic-A-Day challenge.

* * *

_"You don't know who you're dealing with, do you, boy? I mean, really. I crap better magic than this. Now then, let me show you what a real wizard can do."  
--Cyvus Vail, A:tS "Not Fade Away" (5.22)_

* * *

Wesley quietly gathered his first-aid supplies, still kept well-stocked though he seldom visited his apartment anymore. He had practically moved into his office in recent months, especially since Illyria had... arrived. He had not been entirely unaware that his sanity had been suspect in the first weeks after that event, and too many of the things in his apartment had reminded him of Fred; it had been easier in many ways to avoid it altogether.

He felt clearer now, more in control than he had since Fred's untimely death. His heart may have burned up with hers, but his mind was still as useful a weapon as it ever had been. Naturally, this revelation had come just in time for him to put it to its last task. Wesley was under no illusion about his odds of returning from whatever task Angel had planned for him in their attempt to dismantle the Black Thorn.

He took an extra moment to run his fingertips over a photo of himself with Cordelia and Angel, and another of Fred, both women already lost to the forces arrayed against them. He left his journals and books on the shelves-- he would not bin them today as he had when fleeing with Connor, as any one who might think to use them to discover what had happened to him afterward would have been involved in the same effort.

Everyone except...

Wesley's brow wrinkled in thought, and he took slow steps toward the kitchen. At some point between the visit of the cyborg impersonating his father and his ill-thought-out attempt to restore Fred by destroying the Orlon Window, a small package had arrived at his apartment, addressed by his mother. It had contained only two things: a copy of the obituary for his father-- dead at last of complications from wounds dealt by a Bringer the year before-- and a slim metallic tube, chased round with inscriptions in Latin. He had known what the tube contained without even opening it.

Wizards had not been entirely rare among the members of the Watchers' Council, but neither had they been common, and the secrecy mandate had held as much for them as for any other Wizard despite their occupation. The leading members of the group had taken this to mean that though it was in their best interests for those who could to receive a magical education, it was equally important to also learn more natural magickal methods to camouflage that knowledge from their colleagues and charges. To that end, a Hogwarts graduate's wand was always broken upon joining the Council.

Wesley himself had never had a choice, either in his education or the Council job that had come after. He'd surrendered his wand with ill grace, aware that most of his successes in life to that point had been tied to his time spent in Ravenclaw, and watched it snap like a twig in his father's hand in a sad echo of all his childhood hopes and dreams.

Had a duplicate actually been snapped in its stead? Had his father somehow patched it, or purchased an illegal wand with similar components? Wesley had not known the answer, and had not wanted to know it. Regardless of what option Roger Wyndham-Price had secretly chosen, and why, Wesley had recognized the feel of the wand even through the metal covering that dampened its energy signature, and had immediately hidden it away before he could be tempted to use it. He had not been willing to risk Wolfram & Hart discovering it on him at the office.

That concern, of course, was now no longer a factor.

Wesley lifted the box from the drawer under the telephone where he'd stored it, then unstoppered the metal tube and slid free ten inches of ash and dragon's heartstring. It tingled a bit in his palm and shot out a few welcoming blue and silver sparks; he closed his eyes momentarily, feeling as though he had been reunited with an old friend.

One way or another, he was certain he'd be grateful for its presence before the day was over. He thrust it into a pocket of his trousers, then turned and left his apartment, not bothering to lock the door behind him.

* * *

Hours later, Wesley sat at a table in Cyvus Vail's vast hall, watching in distaste as the aged demonic sorcerer slurped his evening meal. He fingered the length of wood in his pocket as the being made cursory attempts to ferret out his motives, and thought very carefully about what he'd decided to do.

Was the defeat of this being worth the damage it would do to his soul?

And yet, what good was his soul to him, when no matter where it went after death his Fred would not be there to greet him?

"You make a very persuasive argument," Vail said, considering, his guard as down as it was going to get.

"Wait," Wesley said, and made his move. "It gets better."

He pointed the wand at his opponent beneath the table and spoke just two words more.

(fin)


	2. In Search of a Guiding Star

**Title**: In Search of a Guiding Star 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Summary**: Angel, Harry Potter. _Wesley, in need of employment after the destruction of Wolfram and Hart, returns to England in search of family_. 850 words.

**Spoilers**: Angel post-"Not Fade Away"; "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"

**Notes**: Challenge entry. Contains references to JK Rowling's Black Family Tree. (See HP Lexicon for details).

* * *

Wesley stared at the ordinary-looking door in front of him, then back down at the curling parchment in his hand with an apprehensive frown. It had been so many years since he'd seen any of his wizarding relatives, particularly his mother's mother's side; the Black family were as pureblooded as they came, and as the son of a daughter's daughter who'd wed a Squib who spent all his time meddling with Muggles and Dark Creatures, Wesley was the sort of connection they were not particularly eager to claim.

Still, what little he had heard of Andromeda Black Tonks had always been favorable; she had married a Muggleborn herself, and her daughter had been an Auror. According to Grandmother Charis, she had even been burnt off the family tapestry by Cousin Walburga, a recommendation in her favor if he'd ever heard one.

She was also raising her grandson alone, after losing daughter, son-in-law, and husband in the final year of the recent wizarding war, and was-- according to the advertisement he'd seen in the Prophet that morning-- therefore in need of a tutor.

That was fortuitous, for Wesley was in need of employment.

He had left the wizarding world at the age of eighteen, three years after the infant Harry Potter derailed the first rise of the wizard known as Lord Voldemort, and had spent the next twenty years attempting to follow in his father's footsteps. Until his mother had sent his wand to him shortly before Angel's attempt to destroy the Circle of the Black Thorn, he had thought it long destroyed, and had attempted to put the seven years he'd spent in Ravenclaw House behind him.

Even after the wand had come back into his possession, he had not dared use it until there had seemed to be no other choice; he had adjusted to life without it, and feared what Wolfram and Hart would do if they knew of his wizarding heritage. As it was, his use of the Death Curse on Vail had nearly been his undoing. The American Aurors had arrived within minutes, preventing him from rejoining his friends, and kept him imprisoned for weeks while they satisfied themselves that he was not a rogue Dark Wizard.

By then, it had been too late. Wolfram and Hart had been destroyed, and his friends overrun by a legion of demonic foot soldiers. There was nothing left for him in Los Angeles, and he had not felt comfortable with the idea of joining the restructured Watcher's Council; he had spent several days mulling over other options, then decided it was time to go home at last. After spending a few days in the city wrapping up his affairs, he had caught an International Portkey to England with the intention of seeking refuge with his mother's family.

Unfortunately, there had been no family left to receive him. His mother had perished not long after his father, his uncle Bartemius had been murdered by his own son, and the direct Black line had been extinguished. He had somehow managed to entirely avoid Voldemort's second war, but he had not managed to escape its effects entirely; he had lost every wizarding relative he'd ever personally known.

And that was how he had come to be hovering on Cousin Andromeda's doorstep, hoping his distant connection to her might persuade her to employ him while he worked on regaining long-atrophied wizarding skills. Small children didn't learn much magic, after all; they were taught from books, and books were one thing that Wesley had always been able to depend on.

He shook his head, determined not to waste any more time worrying about it, and raised his hand to knock. It opened before his knuckles could touch the wood, however, and he found himself abruptly face-to-face with an attractive middle-aged woman of aristocratic bearing.

The lady of the house was obviously a daughter of the Black family; she looked very much like the photographs the Prophet had published years before of her mad sister Bellatrix at the Dark witch's Death Eater trial. Her eyes were far kinder than Cousin Bella's, however. Her features seemed slightly careworn, showing the faint marks of both grief and joy, but she held her wand with the assurance of someone who knew how to defend herself.

"So you're Auriga's son Polaris," she said thoughtfully, scanning him from head to toe.

"I--" he stuttered, caught off guard. He hadn't directly flaunted his connection to the Blacks in his application letter; he'd intended to bring that up in person. And he certainly hadn't mentioned the middle name his mother had preferred to address him by. "Yes. That is to say--"

"Well, come on in, then," she said briskly, smiling faintly as she stepped back into the hallway. "Welcome back to the family."

Something tightly wound and exhausted inside loosened a little at her acceptance, and he took a deep breath for what seemed the first time in months. He'd been bracing himself for a rejection that had failed to materialize.

"Thank you," he said gratefully, and returned the smile.

--


	3. Dangerous Men

**Title**: Dangerous Men

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T/FR13

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Summary**: Angel, Harry Potter. _Wesley felt, for the first time, that he was truly facing a man who had defeated a Dark Lord_. 2000 words.

**Spoilers**: Angel post-"Not Fade Away"; "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"

**Notes**: Sequel to "_A Real Wizard_" and "_In Search of a Guiding Star_"; possibly the same 'verse as "_The New Tutor_". Contains references to (my interpretation of) JK Rowling's Black Family Tree.

* * *

ANGEL to WESLEY: You do what you have to do to protect the people around you. To do what you know is right, regardless of the cost.

-_Angel 5.7, "Lineage"_

* * *

Even if Wesley hadn't been watching the door carefully, he would have known the moment the man he was meeting had walked into the pub; the effect on the background murmur of conversation was immediate.

"Mr. Potter?" he said into the sudden silence, standing to shake hands with the off-duty Auror.

"Call me Harry," the young man said, favoring him with a polite smile and a strong, callused grip. "You're Polaris Wyndham-Price?"

He smiled ruefully at that. "_Wesley_ Polaris Wyndham-Price, in fact, though I'll answer to any combination thereof."

"Ah." Harry nodded, green eyes sparkling with friendly amusement. "Wesley, then. Andromeda's rather a force of nature, isn't she?"

"Indeed." Wesley settled back into his chair, facing the young hero-- and Teddy's godfather-- across a small, scarred wooden table. Andromeda had suggested they meet on neutral ground the first time, get a sense of each other without having to watch what they said in front of Teddy and his grandmother; the Three Broomsticks had turned out to be the most convenient place for them to do so.

The other patrons began turning back to their own business as the pair settled and ordered drinks, and Wesley took advantage of the moment to look Harry over more thoroughly. He seemed very self-assured for a young man of only twenty-six; he was far more comfortable in his own skin than Wesley had been at the same age, fourteen years ago. Rather like a certain Slayer, in fact; saving the world multiple times seemed to have that effect on people. His clothing was comfortable, of excellent fabric, and was neither purely Muggle nor wizarding in style, the sign of a young man with both taste and money, and Wesley would be willing to bet it was Mrs. Potter's doing. The famed lightning-bolt scar was neither hidden nor emphasized behind a careless fall of black fringe, but the equally famous spectacles were nowhere to be seen, leaving the young man with an unnervingly intense stare.

He turned that stare on Wesley as their mugs arrived, then cast a quick privacy spell and opened the conversation-cum-interrogation with a casual query. "So. How are you settling in?"

"Well enough," Wesley replied. It did feel strange to be living in a magical environment again after so long away, but not entirely foreign; he supposed he had it easier than most exiles returning to the wizarding community, given who and what he'd been working with over the last several years. "I still feel a bit the poor relation for arriving hat in hand on her doorstep, but Andromeda's made me feel very welcome."

"You've been a great help to her, I know," Harry replied. "The last tutor had to leave rather suddenly. And she was delighted to be able to reclaim a member of the family for once." He paused at that, glancing down and taking a pull from his mug; Wesley did not press.

"On the subject of family," Harry continued after a moment, "how are you and Teddy getting along?"

"Hasn't he told you?" Wesley asked, surprised. It had been several days already since his arrival; though Harry had been away on an extended assignment until the evening before, he knew his charge sent his godfather letters almost daily through the owl post.

"He doesn't like to talk about his studies with me, and that extends to his tutors," Harry said, shrugging unconcernedly. "I think he's afraid I'll be disappointed if his marks are anything less than perfectly Outstanding, though where he picked up that idea, I can't imagine. I only earned seven O.W.L.s myself, only one of them better than Exceeds Expectations, and after the war-- well, I never did get around to taking my N.E.W.T.s. I don't think I'm qualified to pronounce judgment on anyone's schoolwork."

Wesley raised an eyebrow. Not an impressive total, no, but then again, that had hardly been the boy's focus during his school years, had it? Defeating Voldemort had been a much more serious goal than Wesley's own determination to keep up with his cousin Barty Crouch, Jr., who had managed the nearly impossible feat of taking twelve O.W.L.s. Wesley had had to make do with eleven, but he _had_ made Head Boy where Barty had not. It all seemed so pointless now.

"It doesn't seem to have done your career any harm," he said, dryly.

"Well, they were hardly going to put the Man Who Vanquished Voldemort on Azkaban duty, were they?" Harry snorted.

No, no more than Wolfram and Hart had offered Angel's team menial positions when they'd signed on with the firm, but that was hardly a comment on their actual abilities. And in Harry's case, he'd more than justified the faith of Minister Shacklebolt and the Head Auror in giving him the position. That was more than Wesley could claim.

"And I suppose fame is the only reason your name is being bandied about as Robards' heir apparent?" he asked, wryly.

"You've been reading the Prophet." Harry rolled his eyes.

"Rather a lot of it, in fact," Wesley replied. He knew where the reaction had come from; there had been quite a lot of sensationalist coverage during Harry's years at Hogwarts, though the post-war articles seemed much more professional. "The Quibbler, too," he added, aware that one of Harry's friends was involved with the tabloid. "I've been out of the wizarding world for more than twenty years, and I'm afraid that my first instinct in an uncertain situation has always been--"

"Research, research, and more research," Harry interrupted, with a quick flash of white teeth. "Believe me, I understand. Have you met my sister-in-law Hermione?"

Hermione Weasley, nee Granger: frequently mentioned as a best friend and sometime romantic interest of The Boy Who Lived, wed to Harry's other best friend and Auror partner Ron, and current terror of the Ministry▓s Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; a formidable witch, by all accounts. Wesley shook his head, bemused by Harry's comment and the sudden glimpse it provided of what the notorious young woman must have been like as a student. "Not yet, though Andromeda tells me I'll be meeting most of the Weasleys next weekend at a place called the Burrow. Will she be there?"

"Yes. It's Molly Weasley's home; Ron and Ginny's mum." Ginny being Ginevra Potter, of course. "She invites all the children round once a month-- more often if she can get us-- to spoil the grandchildren, beg for more of them, and make sure we're all fed properly." Harry chuckled. "Since Teddy's my godson, and we're all distantly connected through the Blacks, she usually includes Andromeda as well."

That was news to Wesley; it had seemed strange for Andromeda to invite her grandson's tutor to a friend's family dinner, but if he was to be introduced as a relative instead, it made a bit more sense. "I was aware of the Weasley connection; Mother mentioned once that her Aunt Cedrella was burnt off the family tapestry for marrying a Septimus of that line. Your connection was through your godfather?"

"And my dad as well." Harry sighed. "He was Sirius' first cousin once removed, through his mum. You're actually more closely related to me than you are to Teddy; Andromeda explained it all to me once, just after the war. I'd no idea I had any family left in the wizarding world at the time, save Teddy, and I suppose after everything that happened she thought it would help me to feel that I still had roots here." The Auror looked down, fiddling with his mug, and something changed in the line of his shoulders, as though he were bearing a great weight.

"Did it?" Wesley asked curiously, intrigued by the mercurial young man. He'd seen tragedy and loss on a much smaller scale than what Harry had suffered destroy minds; had lost control himself after one death too many. Illyria, for all she'd been the instrument of Fred's destruction, had been his only anchor in those days; he hadn't been able to let any of his other friends close. Without her, he did not know what he would have done; and even with her, he'd done some Unforgivable things. Harry had been so much younger, so much stronger-- and yet, as he was seeing now, still human, too.

"Did it help _you_?" Harry looked up again, sharp-eyed and perceptive.

"That _is_ why I'm here," Wesley admitted, softly. "I had nothing else left."

"I had nowhere else to go-- but yes, it helped," Harry agreed, quietly. "It gave me an anchor outside of the Weasleys again, and much as I love them, I needed the space to be my own man for awhile." He drained the last of his mug, then gestured to the server for more and took down the privacy spell. "Back to the question, though," he added in a louder voice, "how _is_ Teddy doing?"

"Much like any gifted child, or so I suppose," Wesley replied as the server brought over another pair of full mugs. He was not much used to children, but Teddy Lupin was magically strong, mentally quick, and already very talented with his native Metamorphmagus ability; when he wasn't indulging the natural mischievousness inherent in every six year old boy, he was a joy to instruct. "The closest I ever came to tutoring before was the term I spent in California several years ago as--" he paused to consider his wording, "--a librarian's assistant at an American secondary school--"

Harry snorted, then put the spell back up as the server walked away. "Watcher, you mean." Off Wesley's rather startled look, he added, "Auror, remember?"

"Ah." Wesley blinked; he'd known that _someone_ kept track of the connections between the Watcher's Council and the wizarding world, but hadn't realized the Aurors had a part in it; he'd thought they'd been filed in the Department of Mysteries with all of the other atypical branches of magic. "So, you realize that our charges are typically teenaged women?" he asked.

It seemed Harry did indeed know what he was talking about; he grimaced sympathetically.

"Yes," Wesley continued, wryly. "I had two of them to look after, in addition to several of their friends. I'm afraid I was-- rather unpopular with them, and the feeling was mutual. Teddy, by comparison, is an absolute gem. He may not be terribly fond of certain subjects, and it's obvious he still misses his previous tutor, but he listens when I teach and does his homework with only minimal complaint."

"You haven't told _him_ that, have you?" Harry asked, chuckling.

"Of course not." Wesley smiled.

They fell quiet for a moment then, finishing their drinks. Then Wesley took a deep breath and addressed his cousin and judge. "So, will I pass?"

Harry studied him for a moment. "You'll do," he said. Then his face hardened, and Wesley felt, for the first time, that he was truly facing a man who had defeated a Dark Lord. "But I want you to know, I have your report from the American DMLE. I'm aware that neither Ministry will ever prosecute you for killing a demon, but if you ever use the Death Curse again under any circumstances--"

Wesley stiffened his spine. "You'll be the first to know," he said, firmly. "I know the dangers; I knew them then, but it was worth the absolute certainty of Vail's death."

Harry furrowed his brow at that. "You're not going to swear never to cast it again?" he asked, apparently surprised by Wesley's reply.

"I'm known for doing the right thing, not the easy thing, Mr. Potter," Wesley said, slightly more formally.

Harry considered that a moment, staring intently at him; Wesley felt almost pressured under that gaze, as though the younger man was attempting to read his soul.

Whether he was or not, a moment later, Harry suddenly relax. "You're a dangerous man, Mr. Wyndham-Price," he finally said, then nodded. "Welcome to the family."

--


	4. Making ReConnections

**Title**: Making (Re-)Connections

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Angel/HP. _Wesley was not sure what he would become here, the new person emerging from the shed skin of the life he'd left behind in Los Angeles- but he was beginning to look forward to the discovery._ 2300 words.

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Spoilers**: Angel post-"Not Fade Away"; "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"

**Notes**: Fourth in the Polaris Wyndham-Price series, for beatrice_otter. (And no, it probably won't be the last, either). Contains references to (my interpretation of) JK Rowling's Black Family Tree.

* * *

WESLEY: There is no perfect day for me, Illyria.  
-Angel 5.22, "Not Fade Away"

* * *

The broom bucked a little under Wesley's weight as he kicked cautiously off the grass, stomach swooping as he rose slowly into the brilliant afternoon sky. Childish laughter followed his cautious ascent; he wobbled again, overcorrecting his balance, then levelled out and waved down at Teddy Lupin and his current playmate, the eldest Weasley granddaughter.

"All right, then?" a serious voice asked from above and to the left of him.

Wesley winced a little in embarrassment, then adjusted his grip and carved a smooth if hesitant arc up through the warm air rising from the back lawn of the Burrow. The Nimbus he'd borrowed was much more responsive than the Cleansweep he'd owned through his fifth year at Hogwarts; it was a good thing he'd asked for a bit of practice time before the match, though he expected he would adjust swiftly enough. It was much like riding a horse, or a bicycle; flying was not a skill one easily forgot.

"I think I'll manage," he replied, glancing over at the cousin who'd loaned him his spare. Ronald Weasley was a tall, densely muscled young man with a solid seat in the air; Wesley knew he didn't play Quidditch professionally like his sister did, but he wouldn't be surprised to learn the man had been on a house team during his school years. Ron certainly had the build to have been a Keeper or Beater, unlike Wesley, who'd always been one of the slighter members of his team even after he'd come into his height.

"Don't let him fool you, Ron!" one of the others called up: Bill, eldest of Ron's brothers, who'd been four years behind Wesley at Hogwarts. "He was lead Ravenclaw Chaser two years running!"

"Yes, well, it's been nearly twenty years since I've been on a broom!" Wesley called back to him.

It had been a shock to shake hands with the scarred, ponytailed man with the dragon claw earring and recognize in him the studious little Gryffindor third-year who'd followed the Head Boy around back in '84; he had changed a great deal during the years Wesley had been a Watcher. Of course, so had Wesley; Bill's eyebrows had gone up at the sword calluses in Wesley's grip, and they'd nodded to one another in mutually respectful assessment. There were few enough left from Wesley's time at Hogwarts with whom he could presume to be on friendly terms, fewer still who'd led lives remotely comparable to Wesley's, and he looked forward to talking shop with the curse breaker after supper.

"Not that it matters; old Quidditch experience is nothing out of the norm in this family," another voice added as Charlie Weasley swooped up to join the pair circling above the makeshift pitch. "Even Percy played a year, before McGonagall gave him a badge and delusions of authority. _Right, Perce?_" He leaned over to yell down at their third brother, then threw a wide grin at Wesley, a fresh shiny patch of burn obscuring the freckles on one cheek.

The bespectacled Weasley brother looked vaguely up from his conversation with Andromeda as his name was called; seeing no one around him, he frowned, then tipped his head backward. "What are you lot on about?" he called up to them, somewhat testily.

"Never mind!" Charlie replied, waving him off cheerfully.

"I take it he won't be joining us today?" Wesley said, smiling faintly at the brotherly byplay.

"Not likely, nor's George," Ron spoke up with a shrug. "But Angelina said she would, and Bill, and Gin too, once she gets Jamie settled with Mum."

"Audrey doesn't play; she claims it's not dignified, which makes her a good match for Perce, really- I have a feeling there'll be another wedding here sometime this autumn." Charlie rolled his eyes. "Fleur and Gabby said they'll play Chaser and Beater, though, and Dad still does a decent job as Keeper. That just leaves one spot empty on your team, and Harry will be back from the Auror's office by the time you're done stretching your broom."

"I'll be sure and tell him you're the one who volunteered him," Ron interjected cheerfully, canting his broom over within arm's length of his brother. "What's the count up to, six over four?"

Charlie dipped his own broom inside the motion to dodge the incoming elbow and snagged his taller sibling with one scarred arm, rubbing his knuckles into Ron's bright hair with the other. Ron sputtered in squirming indignation, then managed to wrench his own broom free; Charlie let him sink out of reach, both brothers laughing as Ron drifted in slow loops toward the grass below.

"_I_ was the famous Gryffindor Seeker before Harry showed up," Charlie explained after a moment, turning his attention back to Wesley. "So of course they always put us on opposite teams, whenever we have enough players to go five a side. It's all good fun, though. Ginny spends most of her time trying to distract Harry; Fleur flies rings around Bill; Gabrielle takes every opportunity to show off; and Aunt Andromeda laughs at the lot of us so much she hardly calls half the fouls..."

"I think I'm beginning to get the picture," Wesley said with a chuckle.

And quite a picture it was: a tightly woven web of family, friends, and colleagues made even stronger by the trials, deaths and betrayals they had experienced during the Voldemort Wars. The closest he'd ever come to being a part of such a group before had been during his time with Angel Investigations, and even that acceptance had proved to be conditional. Though the fault for that could partially be laid at his own door; distance and time allowed him to admit that he'd often held himself back, maintaining the art of detachment he'd mastered during his time at Hogwarts. And when he hadn't- well. Once burnt, twice shy, and he'd never pretended to be particularly courageous.

What use making connections, after all, allowing himself to look forward to a future that could not ever be his? He'd always known his life would be a solitary one, full of solemn responsibility.

It hadn't helped, either, that the age-peers he had hoped to look up to among his Wizarding relatives had been too high in the instep to acknowledge their Squib's-son cousin any more than necessary. Barty Crouch Junior. Regulus Black. Even Regulus' older brother Sirius, who'd been a larger-than-life seventh year when Wesley had passed under the Sorting Hat, had rather distantly disapproved of their poor, Mugglish Ravenclaw relation. He'd been rather relieved, actually, not to have been sorted into either of the Black brothers' houses, once he'd discovered the continual state of warfare between them; and he certainly hadn't had much contact with the elder cousins who'd already graduated by the time his father had permitted him to enter his mother's world.

It had him taken twenty years, and the embrace of the _other_ outcasts of that family, to finally begin to shake off that old resentment. They knew what he was capable of, these fierce-loving, hot-tempered, talented people: and far from rejecting him, they had only bound him closer to them. Wesley was not sure what he would become here, the new person emerging from the shed skin of the life he'd left behind in Los Angeles- but he was beginning to look forward to the discovery.

Charlie grinned at him, then dipped his broom handle to follow Ron down to the lawn. "I'll get the Quaffle, then, if you want to try a few practice throws?" he called up to him.

"An excellent plan," Wesley replied.

Where would he be five years from now, when Teddy had no further use for a tutor? He had no idea- but he somehow doubted this family would let him go, even then. He dwelt on that for a moment, a cautious thread of hope warming him as thoroughly as the spring sunshine, then leaned into his broom, taking wide spirals around the awkward, cheerful architecture of the Burrow to test the responsiveness of the steering and cushioning charms.

Yes, he could do this, he thought; a wizard was never too old to learn new tricks.

The first toss of the Quaffle came almost as a surprise, as he revelled in the feel of the wind whipping around him and adjusted his grip to further streamline his profile. He pulled back on the handle in a sudden stop, reaching an arm out by reflex- and snagged it, using its momentum to pivot mid-air and turn him toward the homemade hoops at the other end of the yard. It was the work of a moment to judge airspeed and trajectory, then release the Quaffle toward the metal circle; it was nothing, and everything, like trying to shoot a fleeing demon through a narrow gap of its natural armour while chasing it on his motorcycle, and he was thrilled to see that his aim was as accurate as ever.

Charlie flew around the backside of the hoops to catch it, then called Ron back up, gape-mouthed, from an animated conversation with his wife. "Practice, my Aunt Muriel's arse," he laughed, eyebrows raised. "Let's try that again."

Ron mounted his broom and drifted up into Keeper position; Wesley let his thoughts dim, shifting into the battle-focus he'd earned in his previous career and letting his instincts take over. The next Quaffle came at him low, and he dove swiftly, caught it in the crook of one elbow, and feinted a run on the goals before looping up and backward and firing in a shot from a hopefully-unexpected angle.

Ron caught that one, just barely, on the bristles of his broom, and Bill grabbed a broom as well to give him a bit more of a challenge. The next few went five to three; Ron caught any shot even remotely possible for his vast reach to intercept, and Bill and Charlie together required a bit of complex flying to outmaneuver, but Wesley did manage to find a few vectors that allowed him to sneak the Quaffle through a goal.

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed, as the eighth shot zipped over his head close enough to ruffle his hair and clanged off the rim of the hoop. "I think that's enough practice. Not bad for an old man. Why'd you only play for two years? You've got _deadly_ aim."

Wesley laughed, feeling freer than he had in months; perhaps in years. "Flitwick gave me a badge and delusions of authority," he said. "Sorry to disappoint."

Voices rose then from the yard below them; Harry Potter had finally arrived, though he looked somewhat perturbed, arguing with the frowning family matriarch. After a long moment, Molly sighed, then looked up and applied a Sonorous Charm.

"Attention! Attention everyone. Let's have a break before the game, shall we? The cake is ready- and Wesley, dear, you're wanted at the Ministry."

Wesley frowned. Perhaps his inquiry into the official DMLE records of the battle in Los Angeles had finally come through? He'd been curious, since his first conversation with Harry, just what the American Ministry did and did not know regarding the supernatural situation in the city. Or, what they were willing to admit; Wolfram and Hart had had their fingers deep in far too many pies.

"I thought he was just there to finish up some paperwork," Ron grumbled, as the four players landed and leaned their brooms against the house. "This isn't going to take him long, is it?" he called more loudly, as they approached his brother-in-law. "It's going to be a cracking good game, if we actually get to play it."

"Sorry, Ron," Harry shrugged. "A Class One International Portkey arrived while I was leaving. Someone in the States sent over a priority detainee- one that says she knows Wesley."

"A detainee?" Wesley's brow furrowed. Surely the Senior Partners would have kept Lilah, or Eve, or any of the firm's other assets out of confinement, and he'd have thought anyone else that might know him would be rather on the _other_ side of the law. Had one of the Slayers- Faith, perhaps- unwittingly trampled local wizarding authority in the course of pursuing a demon?

"Yeah," Harry said- and in his sharp green eyes was an unexpected degree of wary caution. "Calls herself Illyria. She's not a witch, but she's not Muggle, either; they're not sure _what_ she is."

_Illyria_. Wesley's breath caught, and his stomach swooped as it had done when he'd lofted into the air less than an hour before. He wasn't sure what he was feeling- dismay? Relief? Panic? Elation?

"I'm surprised they were able to hold her," he said, numbly. "I thought she was dead; likely she thought I was as well, or she'd have come for me long since."

"They're not so much holding her, as requesting she wait calmly while we find you," Harry admitted. "Apparently, an Auror asking questions came across her, and mentioned your name. Her reaction was- a bit extreme." He chose his next few words with obvious care. "She's dangerous, isn't she?"

Wesley parsed the question easily; and judged his response just as carefully. "As much I am," he said, wryly. "At least, as long as she's in my vicinity."

"Ah." Harry nodded, acknowledging the answer with a nod of understanding. "Well. She's not officially a prisoner, so there'll be paperwork to take care of, but we ought to still make it back in time for a good game. I'm sure Andromeda will want to meet her."

Wesley swallowed, astounded all over again by the acceptance of this family. "Thank you," he said.

_Illyria_.

No joy, in his experience, had ever come unmixed with gall. His new life had lacked only this to truly make it complete.

-x-


	5. Come Full Circle and Start Anew

**Title**: Come Full Circle and Start Anew

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: K+

**Summary**: Angel/HP. _Wesley took a sharp breath. "Best we retrieve her and leave as soon as possible; otherwise, she might begin to develop ideas."_ 1500 words.

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Spoilers**: Angel post-"Not Fade Away"; "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"

**Notes**: Fifth in the Polaris Wyndham-Price series, for beatrice_otter.

* * *

ILLYRIA: "You are a summation of recollections. Each change is simply a point of experience."  
-Angel 5.18, "Origin"

* * *

Wesley had not had occasion to spend much time at the Ministry of Magic during his seven years at Hogwarts, and that had not changed upon his re-entry to the Wizarding world. There had been the necessary paperwork requirements of resuming his magical identity after so long away; and of course a visit or two on DMLE business related to the events in Los Angeles and his part in them. But he had never spared very much attention for the interior décor.

Perhaps if he had, he would have been slightly more prepared for the vision that greeted him when he stepped out of the Floo. Illyria was indeed waiting for him- posed atop the great fountain that served as the focal point of the Ministry atrium, her armour clad feet balanced precariously on the upturned face of a gilded wizard's statue. A jet of water issued from the end of the statue's upraised wand, trickling down to wet Illyria's shielded toes on its way to the pool below; several other sculptures of sentient beings ranged about the scene, all facing in the same direction, limbs frozen in an attitude of forward motion. Illyria would have seemed almost part of the set, but for her position above them and her blue-tinted colouring.

The ceiling loomed high overhead, the gothic atmosphere and sheer size of the space recalling nothing so much as the glimpse Wesley had once witnessed of her private pocket dimension of Vahla ha'nesh. A quaver of dark, nerve-jangling emotion shot through him at the resemblance, as though a dementor had unexpectedly wandered by. But in place of the massed, ashy ranks of her long decayed soldiery, a small crowd of Aurors and drably robed Unspeakables surrounded her, watching the former godking with wands lowered at their sides. A slight, chilly smirk turned up the corners of her lips; she was not even pretending to be human, and seemed quite amused at the wary, insolent attitudes of those around her.

He took a sharp breath, then shook his head as the distinct sound of Harry Floo'ing in behind him prompted him to step aside. "Best we retrieve her and leave as soon as possible; otherwise, she might begin to develop _ideas_."

"What sort of ideas?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows at him.

Wesley snorted. "The sort that result in violent regime changes and vast, inhuman armies," he murmured, as he walked slowly toward the fountain. "She rather defines _superiority complex_; and I think magical Britain has seen enough of those in the last century."

"I'll say," Harry shot him a sharp look. "I thought you said she wasn't dangerous to us?"

Wesley caught the qualification in that statement, and gave him a wry smile. "If she's come looking for me, that's probably not her intention," he replied, "but it's always better to avoid temptation."

His former charge finally caught sight of him then- or, more likely, realised that the latest insect to approach her was, in fact, her former guide. She leapt to the floor and stalked in his direction with abrupt, decisive motions, trailing the crowd of Ministry workers behind her like an irregularly darting school of fish, and came to a halt precisely an arm's length in front of him.

"Wesley," she addressed him, her tone half relief, half accusation.

"Illryia," he replied, still caught between pleasure and dismay himself. Distance- and months spent amongst an unexpectedly caring, supportive family- had allowed him to more thoroughly separate Winifred Burkle and Illyria in his mind, but he still had a hard time looking at her without remembering the most turbulent moments of the life he'd left behind. She reminded him of all the worst parts of his years in America- and all the best parts as well, in one tiny, complex, powerful package.

He might have known it would not be so simple to start over. But perhaps- that could be a good thing, as well.

"I looked for you," she continued without preamble. "I killed all mine, and I was..."

Wesley smiled faintly as she tilted her head, birdlike, to the side. She truly didn't understand; but she had, in her way, made progress. "Concerned...?" he suggested.

"I think so," she replied, without embarrassment or irony. "But you were not to be found."

"I looked for you and the others as well," he admitted, filtering his explanation for their audience. "But I was detained. The method I chose to remove the warlock from play is illegal, in this world." He gestured vaguely toward the far reaches of the atrium.

Her lips thinned. "Do these worms imprison you, then, as they sought to do with me?"

The crowd behind her milled at the harsh edge that had crept into her voice; Wesley absently noted Robards among them, murmuring caution to his minions as he eyed Harry standing off to the side in a relaxed posture, and felt the corners of his mouth curl up. "You need not worry; we came to an agreement. I work as a tutor, now. A teacher of children."

"But you are _my_ guide," she replied, blinking at him in what was very nearly a pout.

"Yes, and previously I was Director of Research at a very large supernatural law firm," he replied gently, reminding her that she had never been his _only_ responsibility. She had perhaps been better preparation for wrangling Teddy Lupin than he had previously realised; there was more than a bit of the child testing and exploring its environment in her petulant, egocentric attitude. "What of the others, Illyria? Were there any other survivors?"

She looked away. The audience rustled once again at the movement; they kept glancing between the two of them, Wesley and Illyria, as though utterly confused by her cooperation and his casual manner. He'd have to ask Harry later just how badly she had behaved upon her arrival, and offer restitution if she had damaged anything irreparably; but that was the least of his concerns at the moment.

"When I could not find you, I sought them out," she said. "We slaughtered many of the Archduke's legions that night. But every soldier we destroyed was replaced by ten more. Angel fell slaying a dragon. I did not see the others die; but they did not walk away from the battlefield alive."

Wesley swallowed. It was what he had expected; but it was still difficult to hear. "How did _you_ survive, then?"

Her chin lifted defiantly. "Angel's mate arrived, with her army of living half-breeds. She was displeased at my news, and wished to do more violence. We made trophies of the enemy commanders' spines."

Living half-breeds? The buried Watcher in Wesley came to attention at that description of Slayers; he would have to ask her more questions about that reference, later. The majority of his conscious mind, however, was stalling on the mental image of Illyria and Buffy fighting side by side.

A thousand more questions flew through his mind; he wanted to ask if she had met Faith, if Giles had apologised for his rejection when they'd asked for help in saving Fred, if the Slayer who had temporarily cost Spike his hands had been rehabilitated, and any number of other concerns. But there would be time to air those later, as well. The important thing at the moment was: "Then you were in good hands."

She bared her teeth in mock offense. "I suffered no mortal to touch me. But their company... sufficed. I remained with them until word reached us of a witch asking questions in your name." Then she glanced over her shoulder toward Robards- who had managed to dismiss most of the other assorted onlookers. "This one insisted I set my mark to his scratchings before you could be summoned."

And that would be the paperwork Harry had mentioned. Wesley raised his eyebrows at his green-eyed cousin, who shrugged.

"Goblins aren't the only magical beings who have trouble with the idea of applying a binding mark to something as impermanent as ink and parchment. Or with giving out their true Names at all. I rather thought it would be simpler all round if I just fetched you."

Robards cleared his throat. "Perhaps you could return tomorrow to deal with the paperwork, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce? ...Alone?"

Wesley nodded to him- he really _was_ going to have to ask Harry what she'd done- and then gestured to the nearest hearth. "Then back to the Burrow it is; my cousins will be quite pleased to meet you, Illyria."

She blinked, then crouched to inspect the empty fireplace. "Is there a portal concealed in the brickwork?"

Wesley blinked at her in surprise, then smiled, reaching for a pinch of Floo powder and a bare bones explanation of wizarding travel.

It felt like taking up a sword again after recovering from an injury; or like Andromeda's brusque welcome when he'd arrived on her doorstep.

Yes. His new life had lacked only this to make it truly complete.

-x-


End file.
